


at the shore

by infiniteandsmall, phylocalist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, endgame chrisviktuuri but it's only mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 09:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14691546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteandsmall/pseuds/infiniteandsmall, https://archiveofourown.org/users/phylocalist/pseuds/phylocalist
Summary: Three different times Chris and Viktor meet up.Three different circumstances, in three different places with three different sets of feelings.This is a story told through cities, the gold and silver boys in them and the love that they share.





	at the shore

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written for the chrisvik zine last year! we want to thank the mod for letting us be part of this project, it was tons of fun! <3 you can find more pieces from the zine on the zine's [twitter](http://twitter.com/chrisvikzine) and [tumblr](http://chrisvikzine.tumblr.com), please do check them out!

**_I. Berlin_ **

When Viktor meets up with Chris in Berlin, it feels like they crash together. Even though in reality their arrival in Berlin has been scheduled within an inch of their lives, the competition signed up for at the start of the season and the hotel room booked months ago, Viktor’s bloody lip from bumping his chin against Chris’s cheekbone when he leapt into his arms tastes like spontaneity.

Now that Viktor thinks about it, it feels like they crash together emotionally, but the physical element of the crash is definitely more than a feeling.

They start getting ready to go out as soon as Josef leaves the hotel room he’s sharing with Chris to go out to dinner. Chris has a big vomit-colored bruise blooming up his side, visible under the black mesh of shirt he shimmies into.

“I got it last week,” Chris says. “It was worse a couple days ago.”

Viktor makes a little commiserating sound in his throat. They’re both used to it. It still kind of sucks, though.

“It’s ugly,” Chris says, makes a face in the mirror while dabbing glitter on his eyelids. “But it’s cool. I’m not trying to pick anyone up anyways.”

Viktor tosses his ponytail over his shoulder and grins, gripping the edge of the countertop and leaning back, spine arched. “Would you try to pick me up? If you didn’t already know me?”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Of course. You’re gorgeous. That would suck though, ‘cause I wouldn’t get to like.” He waves a hand airily. Encompasses everything they are, Chris’n’Vik, with that little flick of his wrist.

“What?” Viktor says.

“Know you,” Chris says. “Oh shit, where the fuck did my eyeliner go?”

 

They get a guy to buy them a few drinks, but they’re still barely even tipsy when they leave to start heading back to the hotel. It’s early in the night, the dancefloor had only just started to fill up.

Viktor has ice time first thing tomorrow morning. He’s longing to lace up his skates, that physical ache that fills him after only a couple hours away from the rink, but he still wishes he didn’t have to be leaving practically sober while everyone else’s night has just begun.

Well. Not everyone else.

 

“Come on,” Chris says, links their arms as they duck into the hotel lobby. Chris knows what it’s like, and he knows Viktor. Sometimes Viktor feels like it’s the two of them against some nameless, faceless monster; the fear of being so totally separated from the rest of the world assuaged by the image of them as two travelers from a distant and barely-inhabited and unexplored city, watched the locals go about their strange business.

He’s lucky to have a friend like Chris, really lucky. Chris is warm pressed against his side, golden and giggling and everything good in Viktor’s life.

“Let’s go see if Yakov’s at the bar, and if he is you can come to my room and we can hang out until he gets back,” Viktor says.

“Cool,” Chris says. They sneak around the echoy lobby, following the sound of a soccer game playing on the big TVs in the hotel bar. Sure enough, Yakov is there, watching the soccer game without really watching it, drink next to him.

“Let’s go,” Viktor says, and drags Chris away, ducking down like kids post-eavesdropping.

 

The elevator is empty, and so Chris presses him against the mirrors paneling the elevator’s side and kisses him. It makes the cold lonely feeling that had been growing in the deep growling part of Viktor’s stomach melt away.

They shuck off their shoes and get under the covers, but neither of them really make a move to do much more than lie there. Yakov’s impending arrival is unpredictable, and anyways, it’s nice to just be still and quiet for a while. Viktor stretches precariously to fumble on the bedside table for the remote, Chris hanging onto one of Viktor’s arm so that Viktor doesn’t fall off the bed entirely, and they settle down with the sound of some German reality TV show in the background.

It’s like a replayed video, an amalgamation of so many other nights spent in hotels, but realer, fuller: the sharp smell of hotel detergent on the sheets, the occasional unconscious twitch of Chris’s fingers where they rest on Viktor’s thighs as he drifts off and wakes up.

Viktor drifts off too, sometimes, for a few minutes. One time, he wakes to find Chris’s face pressed in the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. He can tell Chris is awake, too. He doesn’t know how he can, but he does, and he knows, too, that Chris knows that he has to get up and go back to his hotel room before Josef calls and yells at him, but for now they just breath together.

“Hey,” Chris whispers, nudges against him with his nose. “Best friends forever?”

Forever. Viktor knows what forever is supposed to look like. There’s a really specific shape to it, he thinks. Two people who spend every day together, who can’t be apart. Okay jobs, nice jobs, regular jobs, in an office, probably. A nice house. Walking around the neighborhood together, maybe, at the end of the day. Viktor isn’t irritated by the forever, but it just doesn’t fit. It’s the one problem on the test that you go back to again and again and still can’t solve. Forever isn’t the occasional night in hotel rooms, the dark backs of taxis, the pulse of music in a club or the echo in a skating rink. It isn’t podiums or camera flashes. The more Viktor thinks about it, the more vivid this moment right now, the sound of running water and the hum of the minifridge and the in-and-out of Chris’s sleepy breathing, becomes. The image of forever gets fuzzier and fuzzier, further away. It lies across some unfordable chasm.

“Best friends,” Viktor says, and Chris makes a humming sound against Viktor’s skin.

 

 

**_II. Barcelona._ **

There’s tension in the air when they finally meet again. It’s been months since the last time they saw each other, weeks since the last time they even talked. Viktor was fluttery and he always went with the wind, this they all knew, but it didn’t hurt any less every single time he did it.

Chris has to stand next to him, joke and make innuendos with a smile on his face like nothing’s happening. Like he isn’t hurting. Pretend he has eyes like Viktor’s that shine so bright they can never see the faces of the people he leaves behind on his trail.

The whirlwind of competition doesn’t leave room for heartfelt reunions. They’re both too busy suiting up, fitting into their newfound roles. Coach Nikiforov, adoringly lacing up his competitor’s skates; and Competitor Giacometti, turning his water bottle over and over in his hands on the changing rooms, wondering where the hell all those times they tried to lace up each other’s skates and ended up twisting an ankle went.

There is something there that Chris never had.

He has to skate like this, all the way up to the final. He’s mastered the art of masking, though; hiding his real emotions behind a fake smile. It was acquired because of and thanks to Viktor, the master of fake press smiles, taught him by example. Just one more thing he owes him.

Barcelona offers fresh crisp air and a change of scenery. Chris feels reinvigorated. Maybe he will be able to compete to the best of his ability, after all. Even though there is no Viktor, there is two Yuris he can still win against. Maybe finally get that precious gold that has always been passed onto another pair of hands right under his nose, that gold that has always been compared with his silver on the endless nights he and Viktor spent celebrating after competitions.

The pool is where they finally meet again.

“I thought, other than me, only a Russian would be stupid enough to get into the pool this time of year,” he says, because it’s true.

“Chris!” Viktor says his name, and Chris aches.

It’s almost just like he remembered; the slight smile in his voice and the spark in his eyes. That name and that expression had embarked them in many club escapades and probably-not-so-safe hookups just a few years ago. They’d mellowed out with time, but Chris misses it. Not the clubs or the hookups, but the moments in them: the glitter-covered kisses and slightly intoxicated laughter, the eager hands and shared beds, the _them_ that is no longer there.

Now they swim in the pool and take sips of the champagne Chris brought with him and talk about nonsense. There are things at the back of Chris’ throat begging to be let out, questions and exclamations and demands to bring back a past that has gone too far away to still be reached out to.

Viktor laughs and it’s the brightest thing in the whole city.

Chris laughs with him and wishes he was the one who put that light in Viktor.

 

He doesn’t place.

The moment Chris watches his score appear on the screen at the kiss and cry he knows he won’t place. He was a fool for ever thinking he could win against the stamina and charm of the younger competitors. But he has experience, maturity and knows himself better than the younger kids. Viktor didn’t even compete. This was his _only_ chance.

Maybe he was right in thinking a season without Viktor isn’t worth competing.

The living legend is still present, though. His pupil places second and his adored kitten places first. It’s a remarkable day for Coach Nikiforov and his made-up family. He’s got a blindingly proud smile on his face, a blindingly happy boy on either side and a blindingly golden ring on his finger.

Chris? Chris doesn’t even have a medal around his neck.

 

After the fifth or sixth glass of champagne (who keeps count anyway?), Chris decides that he should just leave the banquet. Nobody congratulates skaters who didn’t win a medal. He places the empty glass on a nearby table and gestures at Stefan that he’s gonna leave. His coach gives him a quizzical look, but dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

He steps out into the garden and lets the cool air of December in Barcelona sober him up. Viktor somehow appears at his side. He’s god-like gorgeous in the moonlight and the golden of his ring clashes against his silver hair when he runs his hand through it. Chris feels 14 again, watching Nikiforov win Worlds at 16 and wishing so bad he could be by his side.

“I’ll come back,” Viktor says, and smiles at Chris. Like a secret. “Nobody knows yet.”

_It won’t be the same_ , Chris wants to say, but he knows Viktor isn’t talking about them. Because Viktor isn’t drawn to Chris like Chris is to Viktor. The living legend is drawn to the ice and the music and the love he’s found himself.

“I’m glad,” he says instead. A lie. “I won’t tell.”

“He’ll win against me someday.” Viktor is looking at his ring and Chris knows Viktor isn’t talking about him.

He gulps around the knot on his throat and chuckles. “You’re getting old.”

Viktor chuckles right back. “We both are.”

_Yeah. Maybe it’s time to give up_ , Chris thinks and it hurts. It’s a stabbing pain that will probably never go away, but Viktor’s smile is like a soothing balm. _At least one of us can be happy._

 

 

**_III. Hasetsu_ **

The sun is sinking low in the sky, the air getting clearer and sharper and colder as night begins to fall. It’s the coldest season, and most of Hatsetsu’s people are inside, seeking light and warmth. Not all, though. There’s a silver haired man sitting in the sand on the beach, arms hugging his knees. Hatsetsu knows him: he’s called Viktor. In the same way that the mind of those walking a well-worn route to the corner store or the noodle shop wanders to think of the unfamiliar and fantastical, Hatsetsu would move its attention to more novel happenings. As it is, there aren’t any, really. The stream of strange feet and voices have stilled until the weather warms and the schools empty and the ocean seems friendly and inviting.

The arrival of a new face, green-eyed and golden haired, is unusual, then, as is the sound of a new voice.

“It reminds me of St. Petersburg.”

“Chris!” Viktor says, smiling up at him. “Sit down!”

Chris wrinkles his nose. “In the sand, Viktor? Next time, I’m bringing a beach towel.”

“I’m a creature of the sea now,” Viktor says, flicking his hair performatively away from his face. The wind blows it back immediately.

“Mermaid Viktor, just bursting with that beachy glow. Not used to seeing you in all this natural light,” Chris teases back.

They fall silent for a minute, watching the waves.

“You’re right,” Viktor says, breaking the silence.

“I’m always right. But what about?” Chris says.

Viktor inclines his head towards the water, rose-capped with light from the setting sun. “About it looking like St. Petersburg. Always makes me kind of nostalgic.”

Chris laughs, reclining back on his hands. “You’re _definitely_ an old man now.”

Viktor shrugs. “Marriage will do that to you.”

Chris sneaks a glance to the gold band that has been adorning Viktor’s finger for years now. The sea before them has watched Viktor grow, both older and wiser, into the man he is today. Many people have stood beside him, but the man with hair like the sun sitting next to him today isn’t a familiar face. Chris has visited Hasetsu; for Viktor and Yuuri’s wedding, for birthdays and retirement parties, but has never stayed. He’s not a definitive part of the town like Viktor is now, doesn’t know the streets and the shop vendors like the man with moonlight hair does. It feels like he wants to.

“Has marriage done anything else to you?” Chris asks.

“Yeah,” Viktor replies with a thoughtful smile. “I think a lot more now. Reflect on the past.”

Viktor wraps his hands around his legs, hugging himself, and it’s weird. He’s always strong and willful, an old tree that refuses to go down even in the middle of a hurricane. Chris doesn’t look completely unfamiliar with this.

“Yeah? What part of the past?”

“Like… Berlin. New York. The after-party of the 2014 Olympics.” It all comes out rushed from Viktor’s mouth, frantic. He’s looking for a solution when a question hasn’t even been formulated yet. The sea knows this, the town knows this; the man next to him doesn’t.

Chris hums. “I mean, they’re all definitely great memories.” He smirks and elbows Viktor on the ribs. “When we were still young and beautiful.” Chris jokes, but it comes out strained somehow.

Viktor chuckles, and it’s sour. “I’ve been thinking a lot about those times. When we connected so much more easily.” Chris raises his eyebrows and Viktor laughs; for real, this time. “Not just in _that_ way.”

“I guess we did.” Chris rakes a hand through his hair, then looks at it with disgust when he realizes he just dirtied his hair with sand. Viktor laughs at that and it’s warmer than before. He ruffles Chris’ hair to get the sand out and then leaves his hand there, like he forgot, as he looks for something in Chris’ eyes.

“Can we… can we go back?” Viktor sounds frantic again, pleading, but then he shakes his head. “Not go back. We’re different now.” He sighs and seems to steel himself. “Can we try? To be us again? Y’know, Chris’n’Vik, against the world.”

Viktor is smiling and it looks hopeful, but his eyes don’t look like it. They look foreign, like they aren’t meant to be anything but full of love.

Chris looks completely taken by surprise, but his eyes are sparkling. They look like they were born to shine.

“You…” Chris gulps. “You mean it, right?”

His eyes are looking. Viktor smiles, big and eye-creasing, because he’s the only possible answer.

“Yes.” Viktor nods and brings their foreheads together. He’s trying to hide the round droplets of tears forming at the corners of his eyes. The sea breeze tries to help by blowing them away, concealing the feelings and keeping the golden-haired man unaware. “I really mean it.”

Chris immediately closes the distance between them by pulling Viktor into a hug. His arms wrap around Viktor’s ribcage and hold onto him for dear life. He doesn’t bother hiding his tears, but the sea breeze tries to help anyway. It has countless times silently watched as people at her shores try to hide them away, so it has become a bit of an habit.

“Fuck. I missed you.”

“I did too.” Viktor whispers into Chris’ neck, and wraps his own arms around him. “But I’m here now. We’re here.”

Hatsetsu is a sleepy little town. It’s no Tokyo, no Paris or New York, but it’s seen a lot. All the city people need space and quiet sometimes. The old breakwall on the beach, the white sand, the generations of water birds, have heard conversations like this before and will again. Daughters and mothers, siblings, husbands, wives, friends and lovers. Secrets and confessions, the saltwater shock of forgiveness. Stones thrown into still water to make a bridge. Things that drifted away pulling into the same harbor and casting anchor there.

Forever is carved into the shape of the rocks at sea, eroded by time but unmoving. There are stories there: smiles and tears and screams molded to give shape to the shore. They are part of a greater whole, create a novel that can be read from the sky, welcome everyone to write on the pages of forever.

The two men at shore, pens in hand, smile.


End file.
